The only workout I never skip, is working out the muscles of our heArts. The only strength I love to kiss, is one of the unconditionally loving kind. #movedbytheendlessbeautyofourhearts #movedbytheinfinityofstrengthinourhearts #grateful #blessed #honoured
The great souls in the little bodies, teaching us the greatest deal about good life and giving us our greatest ‘whys’ #expressyourself #dontsuppressyourself #emilisladelbarrio #creativerehab
If You were the only form of love that existed, I would never stop kissing You.
In the marathon of kissing all the forms of love there are, I am happy to meet You over and over again, so many times.
I am blessed in seeing, what the heart, that I host has to say, when she’s with You.
This place, here, with You, she likes very much, too many times making me blush, by how much beauty she loves,
by all the ways, she expresses it, all her hungry confessions, irregretably drunk and high on 100% pure love reflection,
that You radiate 24/7.
You speak, but You, who You were
before Your any transformation, You still are.
The meat eater, the many years of shitty habits,
where they are gone, You are there too.
Honor and respect the person that You were,
because of her You are connected to everything that You are.
This judas had to rat You out for rotten gains,
to hang his failure on a tree and get back to business,
as he was first intended to be.
Yeah, how quickly You forget, that by the same ‘god’,
that You give Your praises to, before You could praise,
You was so hardly fucked, that You forgot every decency
and started to fall for those who held You hostage.
Go funk Yourself ,
all of You, witch hunters,
deep down r’evolving russian roulette,
at least one fatal bullet is in there,
there is no number for my freedom and my time,
I will not bow, except, in awe.
love brings me down to my knees.
how many hay stacks, bon fires, You want to put me in,
the phoenix rises and more immune than ever.
I am eating my own meat in the darkness of Your smiles and emptinesess,
reocurring and rebranching to the sun that I am,
motherfunkers, go funk Yourself, to better me.
The tiny dead hair line ashes holding all together.
The sound of voices, inviting us all into madness,
to The points of turning, where it is
So easy to burn free.
Just You wait and sing through commas.
Sing just To listen how I breaks.
Some funeral to wake alive,
abstracting justices, until they are ready to drink organic.
Ideas exchange their fluids,
Sunflowers turn the hair to ashes,
the fairy tales of our existence water them,
they turn concrete.
How do we know when people of duty make love to us.
How is it pleasure to have the duty to pleasure?
Duty to pleasure is no pleasure at all.
I raped myself again with Your body just to empty myself to more love.
When I write, I feel the same, leaving it all out on the table, cold, empty fridge that feeling, I can feed no one, no more.
To love more, to give me impulse, to motivate to fill it up,
to show myself how hungry I am
to the moon;
I hunger for a touch of pleasure for a touch of love and never, never, never for a touch of duty.
Empty, empty, empty…
…but not this time will I give in, believing that I just got robbed and emtied of my sacredness, I know You love me, what might seem like the hands of duty, is my moment of always beauty.
Oh house, a home, a coming.
I know, I am impossible to live in.
Before, You used to beat me up
to feel some how relieved;
Now, I don’t impose on You no more,
You have collected all the pain You could,
and I can’t help You anymore;
but still, You are in me.
The taliban living in each of us heads
keeping us prisoners in our fanatism about how is what supposed to be;
holding us back from any living out our awesomeweness;
against our nature and against any life support system;